Chapter Text
”Knowing you has changed me. Because you cared, I cared. I cared about you. I cared about Sam, I cared about Jack... I cared about the whole world because of you. You changed me, Dean.” Cas laughs sadly, his eyes full of tears.
“Knowing you has changed me. Because you cared, I cared. I cared. I cared about, I cared about... the whole world changed because. You changed, Dean.” Black seeps through the walls.
“Knowing you. Knowing you. You changed me. Knowing you. Because of you. I cared. You changed me. Because of you. I died. I love you. You changed me. Look.” Dean turns around. Another Cas is there; his eyes covered in ooze. “Because of you.” The new Cas smiles wickedly and grabs Dean’s neck, choking him slowly. Stealing his breath. His vision turns as black as the Cas’ corrupted face. “You killed me. I love you.”
Dean gasps and jolts himself upright in his bed. His hands rush to his throat, scraping at the nonexistent pressure as he tries to catch his breath. He clumsily swipes the empty bottles of whiskey off his nightstand, and they fall to his floor with a shatter. He squints at his alarm clock until the red numbers are somewhat clear. 3:42am.
”Fuuuuck,” he groans and rubs his eyes, smacking his tongue against the top of his mouth and cringing at the bitter and tacky taste. He falls back into his pillow, bone tired and his lungs still on fire with his chest heaving up and down, desperately hoping he can fall back asleep. But after a half an hour of watching the back of his eyelids and his rapid heart rate not subsiding, he accepts the fact that he won’t. He angrily swings his legs over the side of the bed and leaves his bedroom, carefully avoiding the shards of glass now settled on the floor.
It’s pindrop quiet as Dean autopilots into the bunker’s library. He doesn’t bother turning on any lights and he immediately starts fishing for a bottle of alcohol that can wash away the taste of dirt in his mouth. He pulls a group of books out from the bookcase and behind is his secret stash, craftily placed in an area Sam and Eileen would never think to look. But unfortunately, his supply is running low. He’s left with only a large, unopened bottle of vanilla vodka. He begrudgingly bought it for a movie night by the request of –
His hand shakes as he takes a hefty swig of it, the liquid burning his throat. It’s disgustingly sweet and chemically; a taste he’d gag dramatically at under normal circumstances with a sarcastic claim that he isn’t a sorority girl, but now he greedily welcomes it and the sustenance that it provides. His knuckles whiten as he grips the bottle too hard and he drinks until he can’t breathe. And then starts again, just after finishing that first breath of relief. He ends up chugging half of it before slamming the bottle on the table forcefully. It rattles against the table and Dean freezes. Right in the middle of the bottle’s neck now sits a hairline crack, just barely visible in the bunker’s darkness.
“No. No no no no,” Dean panics. “No. Don’t- no that can’t be there. No, it’s fine. You’re fine.” His calloused hands caress the bottle, like you would a baby who’s about to cry. “You’re fine. There’s nothing wrong.”
The bottle doesn’t answer, and the crack continues to exist despite Dean’s pleas. He twists the cap back on with a level of tenderness unfit for an inanimate object, making sure it’s completely sealed and safe from further damage. He puts it back on the shelf it came from and his soft cries echo around him as he covers it back up with the hollowed-out books.
—————
“Dean. You need to go outside,” Sam says as he pulls himself into a chair.
“I’m fine,” Dean says, refusing to look up from the table. He’s mindlessly scraping at it with the knife he used to spread butter on his single piece of overcooked toast, leaving dents and shavings of wood scattered around his hands.
”No, you’re not. You’re just going through the motions. You’ve been holed up here for months. You barely eat. You barely sleep. And I know you’re drinking again.”
Dean clenches his jaw. “You don’t know shit. I’m fine. If you want to go outside, be my guest. I’m good here.”
“De –“ Sam takes a breath that Dean knows all too well. He’s heard it so many times over the last several months. It’s the type that you use to prevent yourself from saying something stupid or rash when someone gets a little too irritating. It pisses Dean off each time. If Sam’s going to berate him, he should at least have the balls to say what he really feels instead of beating around the bush. “I know this is hard. I love Cas, he’s my brother and I fucking miss him. You both don’t deserve this. But I need you to be here. Just be here with me and Eileen and we will figure this out. I don’t care if all you do is eat crackers and ramen and leave your dishes everywhere or let the trash pile up until it’s overflowing. We can do the dishes. We can do the trash. But let us help you.”
“I’m not some invalid, Sam. Stop acting like my mom. I don’t want your help. What I want is my fucking life back. And I’m not gonna get that without him.”
Sam looks at Eileen worriedly. Dean can see them having their own conversation with just their eyes. It’s been almost a year of these conversations behind his back. A year of knowing eyes and too kind words that don’t serve as anything but noise to fill the silence because realistically, they have no idea what to do or how to help. But Dean doesn’t have it in him to try and decipher it anymore. Or even care to.
Eileen places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, squatting to try and get Dean to look at her. He doesn’t. “Dean, we’re just trying to help. It’ll be good to get some fresh air. Maybe see a movie or something.”
Dean lets out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Yeah. That’s the cure I need. I lost the love of my GODDAMN life but sure! A movie! Some buttery popcorn and worn-out seats. Maybe a twizzler or two. Thanks, Eileen, for that brilliant idea.”
She looks at Sam, so he can repeat what she missed in sign language. Sam’s hands are swift, and Dean barely catches any of it. She turns her attention back on Dean, unfazed by Dean’s mean sarcasm. “Sam and I are worried, Dean. That’s all. A change of scenery could be good.”
Dean stands up, the scrape of the chair’s legs ring through the corridors. Eileen recoils from the sudden movement. He points at them, a mean thing. “I told you I don’t want your help. I don’t need your guys’ shitty ideas. I am fucking fine.”
“Dean –“ Sam starts, but Dean is already too far away for it to make a difference.
—————
The funny thing is, Dean never had to tell Sam he was in love with Cas. One day, he just knew. Though it was probably easy to figure out. So many nights watching Dean be drunkenly incoherent, babbling on about missing Cas and how no one missed him as much as he did. It’s a puzzle with one piece. But there were no probing questions to drag anything out of Dean. There weren’t any not-so-subtle pride flags hanging off the map room table or buzzword speeches about allyship. It was just understood that Dean’s feelings had shifted, or at least no longer fought.
It infuriates Dean. He didn’t expect some grand coming out moment like he sees in movies. He would honestly hate drawing so much attention to it. He just felt like it would be more…important. He went through a lifetime of repression only for him to be flung 1000mph into facing it, and at the cost of his best friend. And Sam never addressed it. He just continued to take care of Dean like nothing had changed, while Dean’s sense of self mutated into multiple existential crises. All those years, ignoring this part of him, building it up to this big, unclimbable mountain for it to have just been not even a bump in the road in the eyes of his brother. Hell, it most likely wasn’t even on his radar to make a big deal of it, considering all the other shit Dean made him focus on just to keep him alive in the last year. But maybe a rainbow cake would make him feel some semblance of normal. Dean doesn’t know. What he does know is that it makes him miss Charlie. She’d know what to do. And she’d probably call him stupid for it. And he wouldn’t disagree.
And it’s days like this that make Dean think of John. What would he think of his son who prided himself on the macho bravado with a resolve made of steel now withering away, most days drunk and belligerent, grieving over an angel. A man shaped angel. Two-for-one whammy. He’s probably looking down from Heaven, arms crossed and a face of disgust and an underlying threat of discipline. Just like the one he’d have when Dean snuck in late after a night of hustling pool and other ‘hobbies’ to make money for Sam and him to survive. It’s not that Dean particularly dwells on John’s opinion of him, at his grown age of 41. He’d like to think he’s past that. But at the end of the day, it is another person on the lengthy list of people he’s let down and the idea buzzes around his brain like a gnat.
“Fuck them.” Dean kicks a dirty shirt that was laying on the floor of his room and it hits the wall and unceremoniously lands on another pile of unwashed clothes. “Fuck them. Fuck this.” They want him to leave? Get some fresh air? Sure. He’ll do just that. He throws on his boots and changes into a shirt and pants that are passably clean. They don’t stink too much of alcohol and sweat. Call it a win.
In the bathroom he half-heartedly brushes his hair, which has grown shaggy from Dean no longer caring about cutting it as often as he once did. Long gone is the military, high-and-tight style. He’s not quite at Sam’s length, but it’s definitely in the same family. His eyes catch himself in the mirror and he sees himself in his entirety for the first time in months. Sam was right. He looks like shit. He’s lost weight, his eyes are sunken and dark from lack of sleep. He’s got a beard that’s unkempt and wiry and dry. He washes his face and decides to shave, leaving a slight amount of scruff in hope it hides a little bit of the grey hue in his skin. He’d like to say he doesn’t recognize the person staring back at him, but he does. It’s who he is, who he’s been for a year. He fakes a smile, hoping it’s enough of a mask to make him look at least somewhat normal. But it’s not. It never will be. The smile just reflects back to him, and it’s no more than a line on his face.
He gives up on the extreme makeover attempt and sneaks out to the garage, car keys in hand and throws his bag carelessly in the back seat. The impala rumbles to life; a noise Dean hasn’t heard in a long time. It brings him no joy or comfort. He pulls out of the garage in a hurry before Sam and Eileen realize and try to stop him. The bright sun blinds him and he’s off, not even giving his eyes time to adjust.
He drives with no passenger beside him. No weird music choices to complain about. No snack wrappers in the back seat to yell at. He just drives.
To where, he doesn’t know.